


Petrichor

by bereniceofdale_archive (bereniceofdale)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Books and Cats, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:19:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale_archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been six thousand years since Thranduil last laid eyes on his husband - Bard. The world has changed and the great Elvenking with it, lingering in the shadows of Men; as hope for a miracle festers within his heart that grows weaker with every passing day, the only thing keeping him going is a promise he made, many moons ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petrichor

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oliverdalstonbrowning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oliverdalstonbrowning/gifts).



> It's finally here! Thank you so much to everyone who showed enthusiasm on Tumblr! It freaked me out and gave me strength at the same time! I hope you'll like it.
> 
> This work is dedicated to Max. Keep up being awesome, pretty boy. Thank you for your support, stories, snaps and kind words. They all mean a lot to me! And just basically being a cool friend, you know. Lots of love!
> 
> Listen to the [Petrichor instrumental playlist](http://8tracks.com/mylittlekachi/petrichor) to get in the mood?  
> Theme song for this fic is Saturn by Sleeping At Last (only track with words featured in the playlist)

Greenwood Books was a quiet library at the corner of Tolkien street. It was the oldest bookshop in the country and was famous for its history as well as its wide range of books of every genre. It smelled old, like newspapers and earth after rain; like new leaves and flowers in spring. It felt warm and welcoming. But despite its looks and reputation, Greenwood Books didn't have many customers. 

People liked to watch from afar, peering through the windows. For it was owned by Thranduil Oropherion, and Thranduil Oropherion wasn't a man most people felt comfortable to be around. He was regal and unsettling. He imposed respect upon whoever laid their eyes on him, but also fear. 

Thranduil Oropherion was a tall man, taller than most who had ever set foot in his bookshop. He wore simple but rich clothes: usually a shirt under a waistcoat with classic pants and classic shoes. A cluster of deep scars found home on the left side of his face, and unseen to others, travelled down the length of his body. They pained him no more, the lingering feelings long lost as the years past, however a good knock could bring back aches that seemed to stem from his very bones.

This was not what scared most potential customers away though; to be sure it was a displeasing sight, though not insurmountable to look past. The trouble lay in his eyes, his gaze; icy blue and deep, a presence both immediate and ancient. 

Not many were able to look him in the eye. Thranduil could keep them unreadable of any emotion, but there were things he could not hide, things people felt and instinctively needed to run away from.

For Thranduil had seen and felt and lost much. He had been a King, a friend, a father and a lover. Today, he was no one. Just the last remains of a long forgotten time; a shadow amongst books, a shadow sometimes summoned to show itself by acquaintances, or even tourists and ignorants who never stayed long after seeing his scars. 

However if Thranduil looked cold and indifferent, he wasn't. He was lonely. He craved company; to hold and touch, but allowing it was a luxury he didn’t grant often. Yes, he had some 'friends'. Regulars of the shop. That's all they were. He enjoyed meeting new people, for it was distracting. But he wouldn't let himself get attached, to prevent inevitable hurt. There had been exceptions over the years, though. As for contact, it was never the one he wanted.

A good six thousand years, it had been. After so long, you tend to seek comfort in simple things. Thranduil enjoyed drawing—portraits, mostly—as well as reading every book he could find and spending Sundays in the forest outside town. What had helped him most were his cats. He hadn't wanted any, at first, despite his most faithful customer's insistence. 

Cats were worst than men, after all: their lives were so, so short. But when three years ago, the former elf king had found the two kittens and their dead siblings in a plastic bag, he hadn't been able to find the strength to give them to someone else. Bard and Legolas, he had named them. How pathetic he had thought he was at the time. But no other names had come to his mind, and it had offered some sort of reassurance. It had made _them_ feel less gone.

“Thranduil?”

“Mmh?” Thranduil looked up from his book, one of his favourites: _The Picture of Dorian Gray_ , by Oscar Wilde. An interesting individual. His eye fell on a young man, standing close to the desk. He had dark hair, glasses, beautiful eyes, and was holding a big book in his hands. It read: EVERYTHING ABOUT PLANTS in dark green letters.

“Oh, hello.” Thranduil straightened in his chair, not without a complaint from Legolas who had been sleeping on his lap, and offered the young man (though a boy he was, in Thranduil’s elf eyes) a small smile. He was one of his most faithful customers and came in at least twice a week, was it to buy something or just have a quick chat. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Well, that's a gripping story,” he said with a shy smile and a nod to the book as he handled his future purchase to Thranduil, who took it carefully and proceeded to take off the price tag.

“It is,” Thranduil agreed. “Do you want me to wrap it?”

“No thank you, it's for me,” the young man said. His eyes locked on to the right side of Thranduil's face. It was one of the reasons Thranduil liked him. Their first meeting two years ago had been like many: filled with uncertainty, surprise and fear. But despite the fact the boy had left in a hurry, he had come back and back again nonetheless, until their exchanges grew comfortable. Thranduil truly believed him to have a lot of heart, and courage.

“It's a good choice. You'll learn a lot from it.” Thranduil checked to make sure the book was in good condition before he opened one of the desk's drawers to find a fitting recyclable bag. How strange was it, that he sold books in his own bookshop; to think he was once a king! But that was a long time ago, and everything was different.

“You read it?” There was a hint of incredulity in the boy’s voice, tainted with amusement. It was true that, looking at Thranduil, the first thing one would think about him was that he couldn’t possibly be interested in that kind of things. He didn't have the looks for it but after all, appearances could be deceiving.

“I happen to like plants too,” Thranduil said with a shrug, thinking about how his terrace back upstairs looked like a little private garden; with its many potted flowers that never seemed to cease their bloom. He put the book in a brown paper bag. “That’ll be fifteen pounds, please.” The young man nodded, reaching for his wallet. He took out the appropriate amount and handed it over.

“Thank you,” Thranduil said, putting the money in another drawer. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like a cup of tea?”

“No thank you,” the boy replied, stuffing the book into his backpack. He slid it back on his shoulders and pointed to the door at the other end of the shop. “There’s some guy down the street who has been singing for the past three days. He’s quite good. I’d like to listen a bit more before going home. He’s really nice to talk to too.”

“That sounds nice,” Thranduil agreed, leaning back in his chair and opening his book to where he had left off. “I hope you enjoy yourself.” He went back to reading, conversation already forgotten. But when no movement followed he looked up. The young man was still standing there, grinning. Thranduil raised an eyebrow. “Yes?” 

“Uh, sorry. I was just thinking. I don't know.” He winced, running a hand through his hair. “It's a five minutes walk from here.”

Thranduil looked at him fondly. The young man believed he might enjoy listening to the man down the street. It was kind of him to have such thought. Thranduil had always loved songs and the idea was tempting, but he couldn't leave the shop so early. He didn't feel like going out today anyways. He wanted to read on his terrace until the night fell, the cats by his sides, and then stare at the stars. There were plenty of street singers around here, there would be other occasions.

“Maybe another time,” Thranduil said. 

The boy nodded, though he looked disappointed. 

Thranduil understood only moments later. The young man was trying to help him; trying to get him to talk to others more, to leave the shop and mingle. Touched, Thranduil decided he couldn’t let the other leave without saying something.

As his most faithful costumer turned to leave, he spoke. “You can always tell him there's tea here if he would like some.” _Wouldn’t hurt to try_ , he added to himself.

“Okay.” The young man smiled a private smile, then waved before he left.

Thranduil took a deep breath as he stroked Legolas' head. The cat purred in response. Maybe he would gain a new customer today, Thranduil mused. That couldn't be bad; and besides he liked a good chat from time to time. It helped him stay sane. 

He wasn't too hopeful though, he might not care anymore but he was realistic: his appearance sent people away, sometimes even before they bought anything. 

Idly, he wondered where Bard was. Probably sleeping on books, or wandering between the shelves.

The hour that followed passed in the blink of an eye. Legolas had left his lap for one of the plush benches placed at intervals around the room, and Thranduil was reading away hard when the front door opened. 

The bell dinged, but the creak that followed in its wake suggested whoever was entering, was doing so slowly, moving the door with deliberate force. Thranduil stayed focused, determined to finish the page. He heard two footsteps on the wood floor, then a meow. _Bard._ Another step, another meow. Whispers, someone crouching. A loud purr. Thranduil rolled his eyes.

“Bard, come here and don't bother customers.”

A chuckle. Familiar. Far too familiar. Thranduil's blood ran cold in his veins. Then, an amused voice. “I'm sorry?”

His breath hitched.

He looked up.

And time stopped.

_Bard?_

His book fell to the floor.

His hands were shaking.

There, in his bookshop's hallway, stood a man; tall, though less than Thranduil was. He wore worn out jeans and an old blue flannel shirt. His dark hair curled over his shoulders and he had a moustache and neatly kept beard. His eyes were beautiful, hazel, and had a kind look about them. Read within them at the moment was surprise with hints of mirth. 

But it wasn't just a man; for he looked _exactly_ like Bard. _His_ Bard.

“Hey, are you okay?” _Bard_ inquired as he took a few steps forward, worry creeping its way onto his tired features. “Looks like you've seen a ghost.”

The words stung. 

Thranduil held back tears as realization hit him hard: _He doesn't remember_ , he thought. _Is it even him?_

Yes, yes it was.

Thranduil had felt it in his very bones from the second he had heard his voice. It was Bard’s face, his eyes, his presence; the way he talked, the way he walked. He couldn't get all that wrong, he just couldn't. He knew Bard better than he knew himself. He could recognize him blind, from the way he breathed to how he smelled and how he spoke and how he moved. Everything about the man screamed _Bard_ ; and Thranduil wanted to run to him; to touch, to embrace, to kiss him.

But he couldn't.

Had there not been a desk between them he would have; but its presence gave him pause, a few seconds to notice that those eyes really were that of a stranger. He knew Bard, but Bard did not know him.

“I—I'm—I'm sorry,” Thranduil managed to say, losing all that was left of his composure. “You, you just look like someone I used to know.”

“Ah.” 

The man's expression turned soft as he concentrated on the right side of Thranduil's face, as people tended to do, and he crouched again to pick up the cat who had followed him, staying close to his legs and purring loudly. “I've been told about an invitation to have tea. I thought it would be nice, even if I found it a bit weird. But I can lea—.”

Thranduil stood up abruptly, panic overcoming him. No, no, he couldn't leave. 

“Yes, yes of course. I'll get tea. Pick a book, maybe, and make yourself comfortable.” He gestured hastily to the reading couches and sofas around the place, trying to keep his hands from shaking more than they already were. “I'll—I'll be back in ten.”

And before the man could answer, he was out of the room and in the small kitchen, back against the door. There, he let it all out. His breath came out shaky, his knees were trembling, his hands were out of control, and his heart hammered so hard against his chest he feared it would explode. He let it all out, except the tears. He couldn't let Bard see. Thranduil slid down the door onto the floor. His hand ruffled through his hair, and he closed his eyes, trying his best to calm his breathing.

Six thousand years. It had been six thousand years since Bard had died in his arms. He had never lost hope for some miracle, not completely; even though he had stopped looking, stopped waiting, and settled here, he had even called his cat after him for Valar's sake! But he had never prepared himself for this either. 

He had never expected Bard to enter his bookshop. He had never expected him to be so... _Bard_. As far as he knew, reincarnations or whatever it exactly was didn't work that way. You didn't just have the exact same body, attitudes, voice, everything! You had the same body but a different personality, which was absolutely not what he wanted, and that was all. It didn't work that way. And yet, it appeared he was wrong, for Bard was just behind the door, looking the same, sounding the same, even behaving the same. All that was missing was his memory, and if he got it back, he would definitely be his Bard. Thranduil could tell. It was too good to be true.

It had to be a dream. It had to. But he wasn't waking up, and it all felt too real.

One last deep breath and Thranduil stood, going for the kettle. He didn't know how he felt exactly. It was better than all he had dared to hope for, all he had clung on to, to keep on surviving without him, without anyone. 

There was so much hope in his heart he had no idea what to do with it. But he also felt fear, which brought pain. What if it was just the biggest of coincidences? What if after talking with him more he would realize this man didn't have his husband's personality? 

What if he wasn’t Bard.

That thought hurt.

Thranduil took two cups, chose his favourite tea—Red Berries, it was called—and poured the water. Then he added some honey, just like he loved it—and Bard too, back in Middle-earth—before he went back to the door, stopping before it. He had to put his facial mask on; the facade he was so good at. He had to, if he didn't want to screw up everything before anything had actually started. It wouldn’t be that hard to regress to this state, after all he was so used to it that it was a natural thing. 

When he returned to his bookshop again, the man was sitting on the couch nearest to the window, a book in a hand, petting cat-Bard on his lap with the other. Thranduil exhaled slowly and shakily, reminding himself to keep his composure. Bard looked genuinely interested by what he was reading, Thranduil could tell by his absence of reaction to the door opening and the concentration line on his forehead. As he looked upon the man, Thranduil could see the King of Dale sitting on their bed, busy with some political letters, stroking his hair as Thranduil's head laid on his husband's thighs. His heart ached at the memory, but he showed nothing of it.

“Here's your tea,” he said as he handed the cup to the man, attempting to smile.

The man jumped, and put a hand over his heart. This move was usually accompanied with "by the Valar you almost gave me a heart attack" but he added nothing more, and just smiled as he put the book aside and took hold of the cup. “Please, call me Bard.”

Thranduil winced inside. It was worse—or better—than he had thought. Even the name was the same. He nodded and sat on the couch at a polite distance. There was a short awkward silence until Bard spoke up.

“So, you invited a stranger you had never even seen before to have tea with you,” he paused and grinned sympathetically, “Won't you tell me your name?”

Thranduil realized then what the situation was like for Bard. He had been offered tea by someone he had never met before, who had behaved in an odd manner from the second they had met each other's eyes.

“Oh, yes. I apologize. My name is Thranduil.”

Something flashed in Bard's gaze, but it was gone as fast as it had come. “That's an unusual name,” he stated with a raised eyebrow.

“So is Bard.”

The tabby cat on Bard's lap looked up at the mention of his name, and Bard chuckled. “Well, I guess. You're the one who called your cat this way, though.”

Thranduil said nothing. He noticed how Bard didn't ask the reason of such a name, accepting Thranduil's reluctance to talk about it. Another of his husband’s traits. Thranduil stared into his cup of tea, giving quick looks to Bard from time to time, who too was giving him curious glances. 

That hurt too. It felt strange to have someone bearing his husband's face, the one he had shared everything with, look at him this way. Instantly he missed Bard's knowing and loving eyes upon him.

“So what was the invitation for?” Bard spoke up. “The young man didn't say much.” 

Thranduil turned to look at him, and Bard's gaze flickered from the right to the left side of his face. It was apparently harder to not stare when they were closer in proximity. Usually, Thranduil wouldn't have minded. But once again, coming from Bard, it was different. Heart aching, he looked back into his cup.

“What did he say exactly?” he asked in a conversational tone.

“Just that someone needed a bit of company and had a lot of tea to spare.” Bard smiled. “He said he had to decline your offer but that he decided to ask me instead.”

“And why did you come?” Thranduil asked in a soft voice.

Bard shrugged. “I didn't see why not. It was an unusual proposition, so I was curious too. And no one is waiting for me at home anyway.” To this he winced almost imperceptibly before he brought the cup of tea to his lips, taking a careful sip. “Besides, it's always nice to meet new people and see new places.” He gestured vaguely to the bookshop's inside, then his hand found its way back to cat-Bard's neck, who was still purring. Thranduil nodded in answer, keeping his thoughts to himself, even though he agreed and was more than glad Bard had decided to come.

“I can take him if he bothers you.” Thranduil nodded at cat-Bard.

“Oh no, I love cats. He's a sweetie,” Bard assured him, patting the cat with great care as if he was some fragile thing he could break. “The tea is really good. Red berries, isn't it? It's my favourite.”

A lump rose in Thranduil’s throat. There was no doubt left; it really was Bard. All this couldn't be just coincidence. Some part of him still feared it was a dream. After all, he had gone (in a matter of minutes) from reading peacefully to sitting next to the man he loved so dearly. He who was the reason he was still walking the world of men. It felt unreal, but it wasn't. Thranduil didn't let anything show on his face. He tried to keep it as blank as possible. 

“It's mine too,” he said. Truth was that he used to hate this variety of tea, but Bard had made him like it, back in his home in Dale. “So, you sing, Bard?” Thranduil asked, genuinely interested for if his Bard loved to sing, it was only occasionally. 

The name felt strange on his tongue now. It was different than talking to his cat. His grip on the cup tightened: he craved to touch Bard's skin again, but he couldn't. He wondered if it would feel the same as it used to.

“Oh, yes. I always have. I sing in the streets as much as I can. It's a hobby, but it helps too,” he replied before he drank a bit more of his tea.

They sipped together, quietly, exchanging words over simple things when they felt like it. Bard's smile never faded, and despite Thranduil hadn't in a long time, and felt terribly nauseous inside, he found himself smiling too. They talked about books, cats and jobs. Tea, British specialities and songs. The ache in Thranduil's heart was painful, but hearing Bard's voice again, see his face, recognizing the little things he had grown to know and love during their time together—the way wrinkles appeared at the corner of his eyes when he smiled, the soothing effect of his laugh, the way he tucked his hair being his ear, eased his pain. It was a relief, a miracle which was worth, for now, what wasn't back yet.

“You could come to the pub sometimes, maybe?” Bard offered, “I sing there on Saturday nights, if you'd like to listen.” 

“I'll think about it,” Thranduil answered with a small smile, but he knew he would come. If anyone else had asked, he wouldn't have. But this was Bard. This was Bard. He couldn't let him go. If he could, he wouldn't even let him leave his sight.

It was Legolas' complaints, asking for his food, who made them realized hours had passed. Their cups had been emptied for a while, and Bard had taken off his shoes to sit cross-legged on the couch, while Thranduil stroked the other cat's fur, who had moved to his lap. The local church's bells rang, nine times, and Bard’s eyes widened.

“Nine already!” he exclaimed. “Damn, I'm gonna be late for work!” He hastily put his shoes back on. “I'm sorry. Time flies, doesn't it?”

Thranduil dismissed his apology with a wave of his hand, and a smile. “I had a good time, don't you worry.”

Bard smiled back, and held out his hand. “It's been a pleasure meeting you, Thranduil.”

Thranduil's heart squeezed in his chest as he heard such words, as well as his name rolling on his husband's tongue after so many years. It sent a shiver down his back. Thranduil stared at Bard's hand for a few seconds. He feared he would wake up if he touched it. He couldn't linger for too long though, so he took the hand offered to him in his own. His heart beat harder against his chest: it felt just like he remembered, though it was a little less rough from an easier life with less manual work. It was warm and soft, and the way Bard shook his hand was incredibly gentle, with a hint of enthusiasm.

“The pleasure was all mine, Bard,” he replied.

Bard smiled, released him (Thranduil never wanted to let go) and disappeared out the door.

Silence fell upon the bookshop.

Had it not been for the cups on the floor beside the couch, Thranduil would have believed he had imagined it all. 

Bard was back. He was really back. 

Thranduil stared at the hand Bard had held: it was still warm from their handshake. _It was real._ He wasn't alone anymore. 

Thranduil let his other hand's fingers linger over the skin absently. He wiped a single tear from his cheek before he crouched to take cat-Bard in his arms and planted a kiss on his forehead.

When Thranduil went to bed that night, for the first time in centuries he allowed himself to dream.

  


* * *

_“Aren't they beautiful?”_

_“What is, Meleth nín?” Thranduil laid soft eyes on his husband. They were walking the streets of Dale, shoulders brushing, Bard holding the elf's arm. He turned his gaze away from the sky to stare into Thranduil's. The warmth of their love rushed through their bodies, their respective hearts beating as one._

_“The stars, my love.” He smiled that genuine smile of his. “The stars.”_

  


* * *

There was a strange weight in Bard's chest. He couldn't quite put words on it, but it had come about as soon as his eyes had fallen upon Thranduil, the owner of Greenwood Books. Instantly he had felt something. A sort of inner peace, telling him to not run away, even after he had seen his scarred face and wanted nothing more than to turn tail and beat it. 

And those eyes, there were so old, ancient even; and brought upon him a powerful overwhelming feeling. 

Yet he hadn't _wanted_ to leave. So he had fought it, stayed, and talked. He’d had a good time, it had even pleasantly brightened his mood. He had asked and listened, almost in an absent way. Not in the sense that he hadn't cared about what was being said, more like he felt he had been in another dimension. Time had passed and he had not noticed, talking and talking and talking until the world reminded them they lived in it.

Bard sighed as he opened the door of his little studio. It wasn't much, but it was enough. It had two rooms: the main one, and the bathroom. There wasn't much furniture, just a bed, a small wardrobe, a low table and a lonely seat. No television, but there was a laptop next to the bed. He didn't spend much time here anyway. It wasn't really a home. It didn't feel like home, more like a place to stay. His gaze fell on the seat, and he smiled.

“Oh, hello, Thranduil,” he cooed as he put his keys on the low table. Then Bard took the white purring cat in his arms and proceeded to rock him gently. “Good day, I guess?”

His small companion lay bright blue eyes on him, and Bard stroked his belly. “I met someone named like you today,” he told the feline. “And his own cat's name is Bard. Funny, isn't it?”

Bard laughed to himself as he carried Thranduil to the bed, falling onto it, fully clothed. He was too tired, and would have his shower in the morning, before he went to his day job. He looked to the alarm clock next to him: it read 2:42 A.M. Which left him three hours to sleep. Bard wondered how long his life was going to keep on like this: working at the local grocery store, singing for an hour in the streets, then going to his night job as bartender at the pub, singing there on Saturday evenings. It was enough to pay the rent, the bills, the food, and save a little in case anything would happen to him or Thranduil. Nothing more.

Another sigh and he closed his eyes, hoping sleep would come quick. He also prayed for a night without dreams. The last thing he felt before all went black was his cat cuddling against his chest, his purring easing his mind.

  


* * *

The following week, Thranduil tried hard to think about anything other than his meeting with Bard. But Bard, from the days he had started having feelings for him back in Middle-earth, had never left his mind anyway. 

He kept wondering and wondering if this man would ever remember. He couldn't help but hope, for he was so close to his Bard already. So close Thranduil had convinced himself this Bard was actually his husband. He could still feel it in his bones, in his flesh, in his heart and in his soul: Bard was back, and he wasn't just a copy. Thranduil couldn't be wrong on that. How it was possible, he didn't know, and didn't care. All that mattered was that it had happened, and it was real.

There were two constant fears rushing in his veins and bringing an ache to his already pained heart though: one, that Bard would never remember their time together, and two, that he would disappear before they had time to try anything. There was a third one under the surface that Thranduil didn't want to think about.

It was a constant fear that Bard would one day leave town, and so he couldn’t help himself from going to the end of the street every day to make sure he was still there. And every day, Bard indeed was there. And every day, when the other saw him he would smile and sing with more enthusiasm. 

Thranduil would smile in return, and forget about his worries and the looks people gave him. As time passed he could feel the shattered remains of his heart piecing back together, feelings long forsaken making their way back to him; all because his husband was, alive, smiling and well.

Every day, they exchanged small talks, soothing their minds for a few minutes before both had to get back to their respective jobs. On Friday, it was with light hearts that they promised to enjoy each other's company at the local pub the following night, just as Bard had asked Thranduil to not seven days before.

When Saturday evening finally came, Thranduil stood in front of the pub's door, dithering. He did not enjoy the idea of entering a place such as this but Bard was there; and for Bard he would go anywhere. He took a deep breath and entered. It was brighter, but quieter than most pubs. There were as many women as there were men, and the atmosphere was peaceful. It had nice tables with plush chairs and potted plants scattered here and there. It felt cosy, and had it not been for the bar Thranduil would have never pegged the place a pub for it did not look like one.

As usual, people stopped and stared at him, or rather, his scars. There were whispers and some gasps, all reminding Thranduil why he rarely left his bookshop.

He ignored them, though he was fuming on the inside. Everyone in town knew who he was, so why react this way? Was it shock from seeing him outside of his shop, or because of the ghastly rumors spreading around lately?

 _He’s a vampire_ , some said. 

That amused him. 

He had been living here for sixty years after all, and still looked young as the day.

Most would say he should have left, but Thranduil had never been able to. He had grown to love his bookshop, had made it feel like home, and something in his gut had been telling him to stay. He liked to believe and was ready to bet the reason this whole time, had been Bard.

Thranduil ignored the stares as he went to sit near the bar. People's mouths moved quickly as they shot glances at him, without any good discretion. Thranduil's keen ears grasped some words: most of them talked about his scars, his eye, or their parents' experiences. Some even kept talking of vampires, and to that Thranduil smirked to himself. It fell off his face as someone announced the Saturday singer—Bard Bowman—would soon be on stage (if it could be called as such). Thranduil's heart beat slightly faster at the expectation of seeing Bard again.

The bartender appeared and placed a glass on the table in front of him.

“Your wine, sir,” he said with a polite smile, though he made sure to not meet Thranduil’s eye for longer than two seconds. “From Bard.”

He walked away leaving a smiling Thranduil in his wake. Red wine, of course. He took a sip; it wasn’t bad coming from a pub.

Silence descended amongst the patrons and Thranduil looked up, a shiver running down his spine. Bard was stood in front of the mic a few meters away. He was dressed in another pair of worn out jeans and a flannel shirt, red this time. He looked tired, more so than he had a week before. He smiled when he saw Thranduil and gave a nod of his head in his direction before he announced the evening's program: ten songs, some Thranduil had never heard of. Thranduil listened and watched with his heart balanced between light and heavy.

Memories flowed through him:

Quiet singing as they hung onto each other in bed, and lullabies sung to their children. The songs were for them as much as they were for Thranduil, for hearing them helped ease the pain in his heart over the looming, inevitable coming of Bard’s death.

Thranduil's eye never left Bard as his voice filled the room. Not many were even listening to him sing. They had come for other reasons and Bard was just background noise.

He was so enraptured that he did not notice time passing by, too caught up in enjoying the voice of his old lover. All too soon Bard announced the show was over and made his way toward Thranduil amid mild applause.

“Hi.” He held out his hand and Thranduil shook it. He didn't want to let go.

“Hello.” Thranduil smiled. “Thank you, for the wine. How did you know?”

Bard shrugged with a shy grin as he took his seat and waved to the bartender. “Intuition I guess. You look like the wine type.”

“Oh, really?” Thranduil teased, eyebrows raised.

Bard laughed, his smile warm and genuine. “Aye, absolutely!” He recomposed himself, eyes soft, as he put his hands on the table. “How are you, then?”

“Fine,” Thranduil replied with a grin of his own. “You did great tonight, but you look tired.”

“Thank you.” Bard ran a hand through his messy hair. “I'm okay.”

Thranduil slightly tilted his head to the side, absolutely not convinced. He hid well his worry, the kind of worry he knew all too well: he had never stopped feeling it during Bard's time. Bard had always had the bad habit to overwork himself, something that had driven Thranduil mad more than once.

“Thank you, Harry,” Bard said when the bartender put a glass of water in front of him. Thranduil expected ‘Harry’ to leave right away, but he stood there, looking at Bard with some kind of uncertainty. His eyes flickered between the pub's door and his colleague. “Uhm, Bard?”

“Aye?” 

“Well, the boss called to say he would come tonight. He wants to speak with you.” Harry sounded apologetic and the expression on his face matched the tone. “He should be here soon.”

“Sp—speak with me?” Bard had turned pale. Obviously the pub's boss didn't speak much with his employees, unless it was for an unpleasant reason. Thranduil tensed too, Bard's distress being heavy in the air.

“I'm sorry, lad.” Harry went back to his post, but not before he had pat the man's shoulder in a way he had probably meant to be reassuring. Thranduil glanced at Bard, worried. It looked like it was the end of the world for him.

“I'm going to get fired,” Bard whispered, looking forlorn. “It's certain. I'm going to get fired!”

“Why wou—” Thranduil was cut off by Bard turning abruptly to face the door as someone entered the pub. It was a man almost as tall as Thranduil, with dark hair and severe eyes. He wore jeans and a white shirt under a black jacket, and didn't look friendly at all. Thranduil watched as his gaze wandered around the room, and as it fell on Bard—who let out a quiet "shit"—the man approached them, a look of seriousness on his face.

“Bowman!” he barked. “A word?” 

Bard sighed, shooting Thranduil an embarrassed look, before he followed his boss to an empty corner of the pub. Thranduil watched them go as he drank more wine, and tried to hear what they were saying. He was only able to grasp a few words such as "late" and "lack of professionalism" or even "lazy", and he could see their expressions from where he sat; the boss was impassible and spoke with his hands clasped behind his back, while Bard looked more and more desperate the more they talked. Thranduil wished he could help, but he was no King, no Lord here. A stranger intervening would only make things worst. He hated it.

When Bard came back to his seat his face was unreadable. “Looks like I just lost my night job.” He winced, took a sip of his water. “Amazing.”

“I'm sorry,” Thranduil said, and he had to resist the urge to take hold of Bard's hand, or even to hug him like he used to, to put a kiss on his forehead, whenever things went wrong.

“At least I can still come to sing. I'm not paid for that, but it's better than nothing, I guess,” Bard muttered, almost to himself.

Thranduil stared at him, thinking. He wanted to help, he really did. It was Bard, after all. He could never let Bard down, even if to him, Thranduil was just some new acquaintance. So he stood, and gestured to the door. “You should rest, I'll accompany you home. Do you live far from here?”

“It's a fifteen minute walk, but we've just started talking!” Bard said, expression confused. “I'm fine, really.”

“You're upset and you obviously need some sleep,” Thranduil stated, hands on his hips, tone leaving no place for discussion. “Come on, off we go.”

“Damn, we've just met and you already sound like my husband or something,” Bard grumbled with a wince, standing up nonetheless and heading towards the door.

Thranduil felt a lump rise in his throat as the words tore a hole in his heart. If only Bard knew. He closed his eyes a moment and ran a hand across his face before he followed Bard outside.

  


* * *

_“Don't they have courage, my love?”_

_“Who's that?” the Elvenking asked, stroking absently at his husband's hair._

_“The stars,” Bard said, pointing at the night sky from their terrace in Mirkwood's halls. “They're very brave. They're all alone up there, and yet they shine and watch over us, since as long as our people can remember.”_

_“If you say so, Meleth nín.” Thranduil smiled as he placed a kiss on Bard's forehead._

_“I think they're a lot like you.”_

_“I'm not alone.”_

_“No, but you have been.” He paused, gave Thranduil a look, that was as sad as it was warm, and reached out for Thranduil's hand. “And you will be again.”_

  


* * *

Bard was impressed by how he managed to not panic. It was almost effortless. Yet, he was in a bad situation. He desperately needed his second job to be able to pay rent. If he didn't find another, and soon, he would be thrown out. 

Which could absolutely not happen. 

But Thranduil's presence beside him as they walked down the streets had a soothing effect on his nerves. As if, with Thranduil near, nothing bad could happen to him, as if everything would be just fine.

Bard observed him from out the corner of his eyes, not daring to outright stare. Thranduil walked with elegance, gaze turned to the sky and shining stars, and it would have been useless to deny that he was a beautiful man. 

Bard had never seen anyone like him in all his years. Icy blue eyes under thick eyebrows that contrasted with his short silvery blond hair. Strangely enough, Bard found himself thinking longer hair would fit him more. His features were well defined and unlike any Bard had ever before seen.

However his scars were a terrible sight... 

Bard was not sure he wanted to know how Thranduil had got them. Even so they seemed familiar, like Thranduil would not have been him without them, like Bard had already seen them before, a long time ago. What was also intriguing about the other, was his ears. They were pointy, just like elves' or pixies', but Bard felt like asking about their shape would be rude; and instead shot covert glances in his direction every now and then.

They walked along in silence, but it wasn't awkward; it was companionable. Their shoulders were brushing and it was as if Thranduil trusted Bard to guide him, his gaze never really leaving the starry sky. A part of Bard found it weird, while another inexplicably understood the feeling.

“Quit your other job,” Thranduil said suddenly, taking Bard aback. 

“What?” Bard exclaimed, hazel eyes widening in confusion, as he turned to look at Thranduil. “Why would I do that?”

Thranduil shrugged and finally looked away from the stars. “Quit your job and come work at the bookshop.”

Bard gaped at him. “I can’t do that!’ he exclaimed. “How would I pay rent, and everything el—”

“Trust me Bard, I'll make sure it will.” Thranduil put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, gaze sure and reassuring at the same time.

Bard stared at Thranduil for a moment, wondering if he was being serious. Which, if the way he looked at him was anything to go by, he totally was. Only then did he feel gratitude and his face broke into a huge smile. “I do not know how to thank you.” His smile turned into a grin, no less genuine. “You're literally saving me.”

A flash of what Bard thought was pain passed across Thranduil's gaze, but it was gone as soon as it had come. He only smiled and took his hand off of Bard's shoulder. They kept on walking, leaving Bard to his thoughts. 

He wondered why Thranduil was so eager to help him. Why he acted so kindly towards him when he sent pretty much everyone else away. “He's a lonely man”, his colleagues had said. Bard had been told how everyone knew about him, that the mysterious Thranduil had no actual friends. Some exceptions, regular customers of his bookshop had the chance to know him better by chatting with him more and more at times. All had been surprised to hear Bard had managed to get him out of his place, for all knew how Thranduil was reclusive.

Yet here he was, after a week, feeling like he had known Thranduil for years, when he hadn't learned anything about him but small things.

When they finally arrived in front of Bard's building, Bard still couldn’t quite believe his luck. His smile was bright as he shook Thranduil's hand. “Thank you again.”

“I'll see you tomorrow,” Thranduil said, clasping his hands behind his back. “I open at 10.”

“I'll be there.”

Bard climbed three steps before he stopped and turned to meet Thranduil's gaze, holding up a finger as if he had forgotten something. “I noticed you like the stars?”

Thranduil squinted.

“Yes.” 

Bard looked up at the sky and smiled to himself. “I understand why you would. I think they're brave. Even after their death, they still shine.” He paused, giving himself a bit more of time to think about what he wanted to say. “Isn't that—Thranduil?” Bard had looked down to seek Thranduil's opinion.

But Thranduil was gone, disappearing in the shadows.

  


* * *

_“Sing it again.”_

_Bard chuckled and kissed Thranduil. They were lying in bed, pressed against each other, with only a white silken sheet to cover their warm, naked bodies. Thranduil's thumbs drew circles on Bard's shoulders, and the man's fingers played with a lock of silvery hair._

_“Don't you want me to sing something else?”_

_Thranduil shook his head, answering with another kiss. “You know how much I love it. Please, sing it again.”_

_“Mmh,” Bard pretended to grumble. “I guess that can be arranged.” He offered his lover a teasing grin, tracing the line of Thranduil's collarbone in a playful way. “If you massage my back afterwards.”_

_Thranduil pretended to consider the offer, but his fond, content smile gave away what his answer would be. “We have a deal, Meleth nín.”_

  


* * *

It had been a month since Thranduil had offered work to Bard in his bookshop. And everyday, Bard felt like pieces of himself were put back together, as if being around Thranduil was helping him solve the puzzle that was his life. For the longest of time, he had always felt as though something in him was missing and strangely enough, the more time he spent with Thranduil, the more he believed things were right this way. It had never been the feeling that _someone_ was missing, but really more that a part of him was.

And it felt, in someway, that Thranduil was that part; for it would be a lie to say there wasn’t something special about him.

Bard had always been observant, keen eyes rarely missing a thing, and so the looks Thranduil often gave him were not missed. They went from fondness to deep sadness, as well as emotions Bard couldn't quite put words on. However, when he opened his mouth to ask what was wrong he was always held back by strange sensations in his stomach, lungs and heart; a heavy weight telling him there was a key part he was missing, some piece of the equation not yet solved.

It had started with his feeling that Thranduil liked soft music, and so he had put on some soundtracks he himself liked. Thranduil had looked surprised, but soon enough the air had felt lighter and he had seemed pleased.

There were other simple things, like adding sugar and a cloud of milk in Thranduil's tea. Humming songs when he could hear or offering a pillow to put behind his back when they sat on the couch. Pouring him a glass of wine for each diner they had together. Bringing him a blanket when they spent the night looking at the stars on Thranduil's terrace. (Thranduil still had not explained his peculiar actions from the first night he’d walked Bard home - running away like that. Bard did ask, but his concerns were waved off. He didn’t ask again, but he didn’t forget.)

He had also suggested a walk in the woods nearby, and that day had been a particularly good one.

Every time he did things like this Thranduil's eyes would lighten with hope and his face would break into a beautiful smile.

Bard couldn't explain any of it. But there were a lot of things he couldn't, so he didn't think about it too much and simply allowed his instincts to guide him.

Today was one of those quiet days without any customers. For if Bard had learned something quickly, it was that Thranduil actually didn't need his help at all. The only customers were regulars, coming in once or twice a week. It wasn't rare to have only one visit a day, and they spent most of their time reading, petting the cats and talking on the couch, even though Bard made sure to at least put order on the shelves and in the papers scattered across Thranduil's desk. There was a peacefulness to it all that Bard hadn't felt in a long time, so it was a pleasure to enjoy Thranduil's company. For the first time in his life he loved to get up in the morning and go to work alongside someone whose company he enjoyed a lot.

“Bard, have you seen _The Song of Ach_ —oh.”

“Yeah, sorry.” Bard looked up from the book and smiled apologetically. “I read the summary and it sounded good, so I tried a few pages.”

“Do you like it?” Thranduil asked as he sat beside him, not too close but not too far either, always keeping a safe distance between them that Bard found himself often wanting to cross.

Bard nodded. “I'd appreciate if I could borrow it once you’re done.”

Thranduil shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “I have read it more than once. You can keep it.”

Bard thanked him with a nod and went back to the story, just as Thranduil picked up one of the many books sitting on the coffee table. Comfortable silence fell back on the shop, only disturbed by the purring of the cats joining them on their laps and the gentle turning of the pages.

 _The Song of Achilles_ told an interesting version of the famous Iliad tale, in a beautiful, poetic way. Though the further Bard got into the book, the more uncomfortable he felt. 

It told the story of Achilles and Patroclus, whose fates were known for their tragedy. It touched him deep at the core of his soul, and made him feel unwell; like invisible pieces of glass were piercing him.

“Bard, are you alright?” Thranduil's voice made his eyes flicker away from the pages to meet Thranduil's worried gaze.

“Uh, yes, sorry.” Bard sighed, then shrugged as his fingers lingered absently over the cover of the book. “I just wonder why we read things like this.”

Thranduil’s brows furrowed. He set his own book down next to him, opting to pet Legolas' soft fur instead. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, we know how this ends. We know the story, and yet...” He paused, giving himself a moment to think about what he wanted to say. “And yet we let ourselves get attached, we keep on reading even though what's going to happen is no secret to us.”

Another pause as Bard stared at the book. “I wonder why we read when we know it'll bring us great pain in the end.”

Thranduil was silent. He just looked at him with his piercing eyes, but there were no emotions, neither in his gaze or on his face. Yet Bard knew he was hiding something. As if to back up Bard’s thoughts, Thranduil clenched his fingers together, his joints almost white, confirming that there was something happening in his head; some kind of storm raging within.

When finally he spoke, his voice was quiet and slow. “Don't you like it when they're happy?”

Bard blinked. “Well, yes.”

“Isn't it worth it?”

“Yes.”

“Then there’s your answer.” Thranduil took Legolas in his arms, his eyes not meeting Bard's as he stood and headed towards the kitchen without another word. 

Bard felt that now familiar weight in his gut telling him something was wrong. It happened quite frequently, tugging at his heartstrings, too; and he could never explain it, or guess its cause. He doubted he would ever know. 

He let out a sigh and stood as well, putting book and cat aside. Bard ran a hand across his face, thinking about what Thranduil had said. He was right, yet Bard could feel the heaviness of his words, hinting at something else, some other meaning he hadn't been able to grasp, as if beyond reach not matter how hard he tried.

His eyes fell on Thranduil's desk, buried under books and paper. It was always a mess at the end of the day, but his friend always cleaned it up before leaving to his apartment upstairs. His gaze wavered between the kitchen's door and the desk, wondering if it was a good or a bad idea. As he didn't find any reason not to, he sat on Thranduil's chair and started putting some order. Thranduil was probably making dinner, so it would take him some time, Bard assumed he would be happy to be exempt of desk cleaning duty for the evening.

It had become usual for them both to eat together before going back home. They had no one else to share dinner with, and so it was now custom to eat on Thranduil's terrace, or even in the shop itself. Bard found it strange, once he was back in his bed, not to feel Thranduil's presence close-by. Alone with his cat, the silence was heavier than it used to be, and all he wished for was to be back at the bookshop in the morning. Strange, strange it all was, how he had so quickly grown attached to the place and its owner, to the point of almost depending on them.

As he went through books and paper, his hands found the rough binding of a drawing pad. It had a brown cover scattered with bumps and smelled as old as it looked. Bard was pretty sure he had seen one in some film set in the forties. Though it didn't surprise him; Thranduil looked like a man who enjoyed old things. 

What surprised him were the drawings he found inside. They were portraits, beautifully drawn in watercolour. There was a young man with long blond hair, looking a lot like Thranduil. Then there were children, two girls and a young man. They were on other pages as well, but getting older and wiser. There was a woman, whose beauty was beyond measure; white hair as pure as starlight, kind blue eyes and soft looking features.

And finally, there was him, over most of the pages.

Him, with longer hair awfully half-tied up, face dirty and tired, like he had just been out of a battle. Him, a crown upon his head, looking unsure but happy. Him, smiling his warmest smile to whoever he was looking at. Him, with more wrinkles and more grey hair than dark.

Bard frowned at first, staring at the drawings in disbelief. Somehow, he knew all of those faces. The woman's was just a soft brush against his mind, but he knew she was important. As for the others, it was different. He knew them. He was sure he knew them. It was a strong feeling, hitting hard at his mind, but no memories came. It didn't even feel as if there were any. It was nothing more than a feeling, but yet he could feel his eyes getting wet as his fingers lingered over the lines of their faces.

But then here he was, made of pencil, ink and soft colours. Bard felt sick. There was a lump in his throat and he thought he was going to throw up. It couldn't be him. How could it be him? Some of those drawings were old. Thranduil couldn't have drawn them after their meeting. Bard remembered what Thranduil had told him that day they had met, right here. He had been startled by how Bard reminded him of a friend of his. Could it be it? It had to be. There was no other explanation. Bard ran a shaky hand across his hair, steadying his breath. It wasn't right, though. Those children, those people, why did he feel like he had known them before despite the fact that was impossible? Why was he reacting this way? It made no sense.

“Bard.” Thranduil’s voice sounded in the air and Bard turned. He was standing in the kitchen's threshold, holding two fuming plates and staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. “It's not what you think.”

“It's beautiful.” Bard paused, taking a deep breath and wiping his eyes of their wetness. “I just didn't expect your friend to look so much like me.”

Something abruptly changed in Thranduil's gaze, the kind of fear turned in some sort of realization, then there was relief, and finally a strange mixture of softness and sorrow.

“Bard,” he asked in a gentle tone, “Were you crying?” He set the plates on the desk: fried potatoes with lettuce and tomatoes along with chicken for Bard and a vegetarian burger for himself.

“A little,” Bard admitted. “I don't know what came over me.” He looked down at his hands. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have looked inside. I wanted to help by clea—”

“It's okay.” Thranduil put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “There's nothing to be sorry for.”

He closed the drawing pad and put it aside, not giving the drawings the slightest look. Then he sat in the chair on Bard's left, and picked at his food. Bard looked at him, trying to figure out what was running through his mind. He didn't seem upset, but Bard had figured out soon enough how good Thranduil was at putting a mask on, even though sometimes he was so taken aback that for a few seconds Bard would be able to see and understand that deep down, Thranduil was a broken man.

Bard looked at the burns on Thranduil's face and left hand and wondered if the scars hurt him still. It wasn't a pleasant sight, but he was getting used to it. While their presence still startled him, he was getting used to them more so than he had been a month ago. Still he regretted those moments in which his eyes would widen, for he could see how it pained Thranduil. 

Afterwards it wasn't unusual for him to feel the urge to let his fingers wander over the ruined skin, and he longed to press soft kisses on it, in order to show he didn't mean such hurtful reactions. They were strange thoughts that made him feel uncomfortable, another thing his instinct frequently told him to do. But that, he hadn't found the strength to do yet. He feared it would be like crossing a line.

They ate in silence, as they often did, but there was something different in the air. Bard could see the slight shaking in Thranduil's hands. He could see how he closed his eyes a fraction of seconds longer when he blinked. And Bard, he still felt terrible, the weight in his chest not leaving his body.

When Bard finally left for home that night, the faces of the people in Thranduil's drawing pad had not left his mind.

  


* * *

_“Promise me something, Thranduil?” Bard murmured, head against his husband’s chest, playing with locks of silvery blond hair._

_“Anything, Meleth nín.”_

_The King of Dale paused to look right into his husband’s eyes. “When I'm gone,” he whispered. “Please don't fade.”_

_Thranduil looked away. “You know I can't promise you that.”_

_“Do you remember what I said, on our wedding night?”_

_“Yes.” Thranduil sighed, running his fingers across Bard's back. “You said the world had been made to be seen by my eyes.”_

_They stayed silent, listening to each other's steady breath. Until Bard spoke once again, but it was barely audible. “Please, don't fade.”_

  


* * *

Two weeks later they were sitting on Thranduil's terrace, enjoying the sun of late spring. Now that the temperature was warmer every day, they spent each lunch time amongst the plants and flowers Thranduil took such great care of. The radio was playing and they were talking about everything that came to their minds. The air smelled of roses and lavender, and there was a pleasant peacefulness in the atmosphere. They were finishing their sandwiches when Bard appeared to make a decision and sat straighter on his seat, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I have a cat, you know,” he said, clasping his hands on his lap.

“What?”

“I have a cat too,” Bard repeated, rolling his eyes at Thranduil's perplexity.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at him. “That's great, Bard.” He smirked in a teasing way.

“Oï, don't mock me!” Bard laughed, making Thranduil smile upon hearing it. Each time Bard's laughter filled a room, Thranduil wanted it to last forever. It was the sound he had missed the most during all those years of loneliness. That sound which never failed to lift his mind and ease the aches of his heart.

“His name's Thranduil.”

Thranduil's first reaction was to laugh as well. Until he realized Bard was serious, and only then did his smile fade. “W—what?” He stuttered, too taken aback to think about how to react properly.

Bard shrugged. “I don't know why, it just came to me. I find it funny that your cat's name is Bard when mine's named like you.”

“Yes.” Thranduil looked away, concentrating on the blue flowers next to him. “Funny indeed.” 

He tried to smile, but it was forced. Such information brought hope as much as it brought pain. On one hand, it was yet more proof Bard was Bard, not that he needed to be convinced anymore. On the other, it changed nothing of the situation. Bard was there and not there at the same time.

“You'll have to introduce us someday then,” Thranduil said. 

He stood up under Bard's worried gaze, who seemed to have noticed Thranduil's reaction, despite Thranduil’s best attempt to hide it.

Before Thranduil could escape back to his apartment, a hand gently took hold of his wrist. He turned, meeting Bard's hazel eyes. “Thran, listen, I'm sorry.” Thranduil slightly stiffened upon hearing this version of his name, and his heart beat faster against his ribcage, threatening to burst out. Only Bard called him that. It had been so long.

His reaction only increased the strength of Bard's apologetic gaze. “I don't know what is it that I do, but I can see it how some things I say, even the simplest ones, make you feel bad. I'm deeply sorry they do.”

Thranduil didn't answer, for he didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't tell the truth, but he didn't want to lie either, not now. All he could think of was "don't", but it didn't come out of his mouth. Instead he let silence settle between them, not withdrawing his hand nonetheless. They were just staring, searching each other's eyes in hope of finding some miracle that could solve their problems. That’s when the radio started playing a song.

A calm, soft song.

Bard started singing it quietly: he knew all the words.

Bard edged closer, laying a comforting gaze on him and extending his hands to place one at Thranduil's waist and the other behind Thranduil's back. He was smiling, and Thranduil had no idea what was happening, until Bard moved, bringing him into a slow dance. The steps came naturally as Thranduil let himself be guided around the terrace, Bard smiling against his shoulder. He didn't understand, but he felt the flutters of his heart and remembered days long past.

Thranduil could see the evening following Bain's coronation. How the main hall had been slowly emptied and they were the only ones left. He remembered Bard bowing and extending his hand to him, that smile Thranduil loved so much playing on his lips. He remembered taking Bard's hand and letting himself be guided into a dance; their only music, the accompanying lull of their steady breaths. He remembered the way Bard buried his head in his neck and placed tender kisses on his ivory skin. He remembered telling Bard he loved him.

“It's weird, you know,” Bard said then as the song came to an end, bringing Thranduil abruptly back to present, as he pulled away with an embarrassed smile and clasped his hands behind his back. “I don't even know why I did that.”

Thranduil said nothing. He looked away and went inside, pretending to be interested with the inventories scattered on the living room's table. Pretending his hands were not shaking, pretending his eyes were not getting wet, pretending his heart didn't ache like hell.

Bard followed him, reaching for his hand. “Sometimes I feel like I've known you my whole life.”

Thranduil couldn't. It was too much. He stopped, moved Bard's hand away, clenched his fists on the table.

“You should go.” His voice was barely a whisper, but he was sure Bard would hear.

“Wha—why?” Bard stuttered, taking a step towards him.

“Just go Bard, _please_.”

Bard stopped right there and stared at him, confusion written all over his face. He opened his mouth to say something, then just shook his head and headed to the stairs.

  


* * *

Bard stood with his back to the door of the bookshop that had just closed behind him. He looked down at his hands and found them shaking. He had wanted to offer some sort of comfort and instead, he had screwed up. What had happened? Better yet, what had come over him? Part of him knew why and the other didn't. He shouldn't have initiated that dance. He shouldn't have been so close. It had been stupid, and a big mistake. Yet, it didn't fully explain why Thranduil had reacted in such a way. The everlasting pain in his eyes, the tears threatening to roll down his cheeks, the heartache in his voice. Bard didn't understand, but he hated himself for it, for he was the cause. He could feel Thranduil's sorrow in his very bones, and it hurt like hell.

He wanted to go back inside and set things right. But Thranduil wouldn't want that, not now. Bard let out a heavy sigh and ran a hand across his face. He would walk a little, find something to do and then come back later. He couldn't bring himself to go home and wait for morning to sort things out.

Bard went to the end of the street. There he stood at his usual spot, and began to sing, just like he did almost every day. No mic, no speaker, just the power of his voice. It was something he had not given up on even after he had started working with Thranduil. He loved to sing, and it was a good way to escape, to ease his thoughts. At least it was, most of the time. Today, there was no way he could fully concentrate. 

He remembered a discussion he’d had with the Greenwood Books owner. They had been sitting on a bench in the nearby forest, and Thranduil had asked if singing was his only passion. Bard had answered he actually loved archery more, but couldn't practice because of his lack of time and money for equipment. To that Thranduil had proceeded to bring him to a shooting range. It had been a great day, and there had been others like it. Weren't they worth all the pain?

Bard shook his head. It didn't matter right now.

People stopped to listen to his singing. They smiled at him, some even put some coins at his feet, despite the fact that the usual old tin he used to collect tips with was not there. Bard smiled back at those generous onlookers, and whispered thank you.

Then he started a new song, but his mind wasn't there. He thought about Thranduil and all the things that had changed in his life since they had met. The coincidences, like their cat names, the portraits and their same tastes in tea and wine. All the things he knew about Thranduil and all the things Thranduil knew about him. There had to be an explanation, but he hadn't looked for one. Why? Because it had always felt right? Because it had always felt as if it was meant to be? He didn't know, but now, now he wanted to. They couldn't go on like this. Thranduil had sent him away, something he had never done before. Somehow Bard had crossed a line and he had to make things right, he had to understand.

He sang for hours, not realizing the passing of time, until someone tapped him on his shoulder. He turned and saw the young man who was the reason he had met Thranduil, standing next to him. His eyes were soft though his smile hesitant.

“Are you okay, sir?” he asked.

Bard blinked as if the words could not be processed to his brain. He opened his mouth to answer, but he realized he didn't know what to say. He didn't feel bad, but he didn't feel fine either.

“You've been standing here for like, six hours since I walked by earlier,” he explained, eyes curious but concerned. “I don't mean to pry, but don't you work at Thranduil's bookshop?”

“I do.” Bard shook his head, ran a hand through his hair. He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes before he opened them again to answer with as much confidence as he was able. “I'm fine. I was just lost in my thoughts.”

The young man didn't seem convinced, but he said nothing and gave him a small smile, as if Bard wasn't done talking. He cleared his throat awkwardly as the deepness of the young man's eyes pierced through him.

“I'd better get back. Thank you for, you know, bringing me back to reality.” Bard laughed, chuckling as he now realized he could have ended up staying there far longer had the young man not spoken to him. 

“No problem.” The other shrugged. “Give Thranduil my regards.”

“I will.” 

A last smile, a handshake and they both went separate ways, Bard more determined than ever to fix the mess he had created. He walked fast to the bookshop, his strides long but his hands so shaky he had to stuff them in his pockets. He had no idea what he was going to find, nor what they were going to say. All he knew was that it wasn't going to be easy.

  


* * *

_“I promise.” Thranduil's words came out shaky. His eyes connected to the tired ones of his husband. “I promise you I won't fade.” He stroked, with all the care and love in the world, the side of Bard's face. “I'll see the world.”_

_Bard smiled that warm smile of his, that smile Thranduil loved so much. “Good. That's good.” He closed his eyes, let out a sigh. His voice was weak, yet determined, when he spoke again. “I love you, Meleth nín.”_

_A single tear rolled down Thranduil's cheek, as he held his lover's thin, fragile body, tenderly kissed his mouth and felt Bard's last breath against his lips._

  


* * *

Thranduil sat at the kitchen table, eyes misted over in thought.

Everything Bard did brought back memories. But Bard had no idea how much meaning his actions held. And it hurt as much as it eased the tension in his heart; for every little gesture Bard made gave Thranduil hope. But that hope was fickle. Bard did not remember, and seemed as though he would not any time soon.

On the other hand, he showed some fondness and care. Thranduil could see the warmth in his eyes, the awakening of memories long lost. Should he wait for him to remember, or continue as they were? He squashed that thought in an instant. Trying something new would feel like he was betraying Bard in some way, betraying what they had known.

“What am I going to do, Legolas?” he asked as if the cat could answer him.

He received what he assumed to be an interrogative look in response. 

A sigh of frustration escaped his lips. He felt on the verge of tears. Each time Bard left the shop, he felt alone again, and hated it. Before Bard had come back into his life, he had been used to being alone most of the time. He had almost found it pleasant, peaceful. Now, it felt more wrong than ever. But he’d had to send Bard away. He needed to breathe, and to think.

Taking Legolas in his arms, he went down to the shop and turned the sign to ‘closed’ before he sat on their couch. _Their couch_ , that's how they liked to call it. It was strange to sit on it without Bard by his side. Oh, there were his cats of course. But they didn't talk. They didn't exchange glances and smiles and caring words with him. 

Just as he thought this, cat-Bard came and curled up by his side, purring away. Thranduil couldn't help a small smile, for it always felt like they tried to comfort him in times of distress.

For about an hour Thranduil stayed there on the couch, staring into space, trying to put order into his jumbled thoughts: wondering what he would say to Bard tomorrow, wondering if he should try to tell him the truth, wondering for how long he would be able to go on like this, and wondering if Bard would ever remember and stop looking at him like he was a stranger. He missed the love and the unspoken words in his husband's gaze. He hated seeing nothing but basic friendship and blossoming feelings. It was better than nothing, but still it hurt. It wasn't enough to ease six thousand years of loneliness, keeping promises, hoping to see the Bard who knew him again.

He had been a fool to think it would be that easy. He had been a fool to think he would get Bard back, that things would be different than the other reincarnations he had seen in his long, too long life. He had been a fool to believe Bard would get some special treatment. 

Why had the Valar done this? Why had they brought him back without what was the most important? Were they enjoying this, his pain? Were they laughing at him and his foolishness, his too deep love for some mortal who had died thousand of years ago? Were they still even there, or was it just destiny playing with him, bringing him more pain than he already had?

It wasn't fair. It was cruel. And it was killing him.

Hours passed, and Thranduil didn't move. His fingers stroked the cat’s fur absently as he stared at a spot on the wall, lost in memories and thoughts.

He didn't like it, this absence of control. Even as a simple bookshop owner, he had always had control over his life, over his emotions, over everything. Since Bard was back all that had changed. What should he do? Keep on like this, enjoy what was left of Bard’s life, or stop it all and finally, finally give up? 

If he left maybe he would see his wife again, but she would scold him, wouldn't she? And Bard, what would Bard think? He had promised, after all, promised to never fade. He always kept his promises.

Thranduil buried his face in his hands. He couldn't give up. It would be difficult, it would maybe take months or years, but he would _not give up_ ; not when there was a chance of Bard remembering. 

What they had now wasn't bad, it was just incomplete.

The bell above the door jingled then, startling him. Cat-Bard and Legolas stood up to run between the shelves, clearly curious over who this new visitor was.

“We're closed!” Thranduil said loud enough to be heard, but with less conviction than he intended: his voice was rough from crying, almost shaky, definitely broken. He needed a good night of sleep, and tomorrow would be a better day to take on with a clearer head. 

That’s when the visitor walked in.

Bard.

Bard looked nervous. He played with his fingers unconsciously, his eyes going repeatedly from Thranduil's eyes to the floor. “Your young friend says hello,” he whispered, and Thranduil's only answer was a small nod. He stared at the scars on his hands, not trusting himself to speak, fearing he would break down in front of Bard. He couldn't.

_He couldn't._

There was movement close by, and suddenly Bard was crouching in front of him, a hand seeking his own scarred one, the other going for his chin. His gestures were unsure, but genuine and Thranduil could not find it in himself to push Bard away this time.

Still, the second their eyes met Thranduil choked out a sob as his fingers clenched onto Bard's hand.

“Please, Thran, tell me what's wrong.” _Thran._ Bard seemed desperate to help. But how could he? He couldn't understand, he couldn't feel what he felt! All that Bard did, it was just small reminiscences without any actual memories. It meant nothing without those, did it?

“You don't remember,” he breathed, and Bard furrowed his brows.

“What?” Bard moved to sit beside him and put his hand on his shoulder. Thranduil shivered at the touch, and felt the lump in his throat grow more uncomfortable. Tears now fell freely down his cheeks, and the mask fully fell apart.

 _“You don't remember.”_ He sobbed uncontrollably, his face now buried behind his arms, hiding his red eyes, his tears, his scars. How far was he from the great Elvenking of the Woodland Realm!

Gone was the cold mask and control over his emotions; all gone, gone, gone. It had been long forsaken, six thousand years ago, because of Bard. Bard, who had broken his walls; Bard, who had shown him life was still worth living even after death; Bard, who had managed to make him see light where only darkness had laid; Bard, thanks to who he wouldn't be there with a second chance. But this second chance, was it worth it? Was it worth it to start again, and put what had been shared aside, as if it had never existed? Thranduil couldn't. His love for Bard was old. So, so old. He just couldn't stand looking into Bard's eyes and see no recognition for the rest of his mortal life. “You don't remember!”

  


* * *

Thranduil's desperation hurt. It overwhelmed Bard as if someone was trying to drown him in salty water. The air was heavy with Thranduil's grief and sorrow and Bard felt as if he was going to choke. Thranduil's cries bit and stung at his skin, digging deeper into his very bones and heart.

Instinctively he felt the things he should do. They burned under his skin. But he was afraid to listen to something he didn't understand. Yet, there had been so many things lately that he had not been able to explain. All those little gestures he had made, all those little facts he had just known about Thranduil. All that was already inexplicable.

Bard sat there on the couch on which they had spent their first hours together, hands on his lap, just not daring to reach out.

But then, Thranduil finally turned to face him, his gaze full of a pain and loneliness and desperation. 

“ _I love you_ , but you don't remember.”

Bard couldn't hold it any longer, he couldn't resist it. He just couldn't: that declaration, it didn't sound odd, it didn't sound like a surprise. It sounded like a long forgotten truth finally spoken again. He put his fear aside, let this instinct he didn't understand lead his movements, and _moved_.

He leaned forward and brought Thranduil into a tight embrace. He kissed him on the forehead. He stroked his hair gently. He hummed a song. 

It all came naturally, like something he had done all his life, something he had always known how to do. Something he didn't even find weird. Thranduil's tears wet his neck and his grip on Bard grew tighter, as if he was afraid Bard would disappear. And somehow, Bard found himself clinging onto him too. His own tears started rolling down his cheeks and he couldn't understand why he was reacting this way. He just was.

Bard closed his eyes.

“I love you, _Meleth nín,_ ” Thranduil sobbed again.

_Meleth nín._

Wait.

Those words. 

_He knew those words._

And suddenly everything was crystal clear.

Bard's eyes shot open as a strong shiver ran down his spine, and he gasped as uninvited images, _memories_ , flooded his mind, drowning him under the crushing weight of it all. There were images, hundreds of images. Bow and arrows, dragons and dwarves, lakes and mountains, children and friends. There was blood and water, fire and ice. There were crowns and wine.

He held his head between his hands, breathing heavily. He couldn't see where he was anymore, but he felt them: he felt the arms around him, the hands stroking his back as he trembled. He closed his eyes again.

There was a beautiful woman, and then a beautiful man. There was the pain of grief and the joy of life, cries and laughs. There were wrinkles and old limbs kissed by young, delicate lips and stroked by perfect, caring fingers.

He couldn't stop his tears, and the shaking of his breath and body.

There was long silvery hair on silken sheets. Kisses shared under the stars. Songs in a large bed, bodies warming each other. Tender fingers over skin and scars. Embraces and caresses and soft words of love whispered to listening ears. And two words, two words repeated and repeated over years and years until the light had faded away.

_Meleth nín._

“B—Bard?”

His name, spoken in that voice he knew so well, startled him. Slowly the images faded away, giving way to the darkness and phosphenes darting about his blackened vision. His breath progressively calmed down thanks to caring fingers rubbing his back gently, reassuring words soothing his mind. His body stopped shaking, only left in warmth and sweat. There was nothing more than their breaths to fill the silence which followed.

Bard opened his eyes and looked up from behind his arms to meet a gaze full of a new kind of hope.

_Thranduil._

His friend, his elf, his lover, his husband.

Bard tentatively reached out to caress the scars on Thranduil's face, a ghost of a touch but there nonetheless. His fingers lingered over the lines of Thranduil's face, wiping away the tears wetting his soft ivory skin. His own fell freely down his cheeks, but he smiled. It was a small smile, like the smile of a child discovering something new for the first time, pleased and amazed. But for Bard, it was different. Thranduil wasn't new to him.

Then, careful not to hurt, Bard cupped Thranduil's face in his rough hands, stroking it gently with his thumbs. He looked deep into his eyes for a moment, saying nothing. He didn't need to say anything. They had never needed any words. It was one of the first things they had learned to do: talking in silence.

Ever so slowly, Bard leaned forward, bringing their lips together. It wasn't shy, but it was tender and careful. Just a light brush of lips, like a feather on the wind. It was like learning to walk again, to breathe and to live. Thranduil's hands found the back of Bard's head as he deepened the kiss, making it desperate, yet somehow still calm, gentle.

Thranduil's fingers were wary, shaky, as they wandered in Bard's hair, going down his back then up again to his shoulders and his arms, remembering what if felt like to touch again a body he had once known so well. Bard couldn't bring himself to keep his hands away from Thranduil's face. He put a loving kiss on Thranduil's forehead before he brought them together. They didn't need any words, but he wanted to say it. He wanted to say it and he wanted to do so as he looked right into Thranduil's soul. Bard took a deep breath, letting all the warmth of his heart shine through his eyes.

Bard's face broke into a huge smile shining like a thousand stars.

“How could I ever forget you, _Thranduil_ , my love?”

  


* * *

Bard had moved the mattress to the terrace, amongst the many plants and under the thousands of stars. The sky was clear and the night warm. They lay on it, bodies close and craving for fingers upon them, unable to leave the other's touch. They didn't talk much, for their eyes and gestures told everything. For one, it was like finally finding a reason to his presence on Earth, for the other it was breathing properly again, but for both it was like truly living again.

For hours, all they did was touch, caress, kiss; rediscovering bodies they knew so well after ages away from each other. Their eyes connected as much as possible, speaking a thousand words they couldn't voice, for there were too many. Their minds were lighter than they had ever been and their thoughts were all about love refound. When they talked, it was only to say aloud what they knew, what their gazes and gestures screamed already.

It had to be the middle of the night when finally they managed to look away at the stars for longer than a few seconds. It was only then that they spoke.

“Why didn't you sail?” Bard asked quietly, Thranduil's head resting on his bare chest. He was realizing then that there was only one thing he missed still; to run his fingers through his husband's long hair.

“I made you a promise, didn't I?” Thranduil answered. “I always keep my promises.”

“Yes, not to fade. It was never about not sailing.”

“I couldn't see the world if I sailed. It wasn't what I wanted anyways.” Thranduil's voice grew quieter. “Do you regret I did not?”

Bard shook his head, kissed the top of Thranduil's head. 

“No, of course not.” 

He didn't add that he would have preferred for Thranduil to not be alone for so long, for it didn't need saying. It was common sense, but he knew that now they were here, Thranduil wouldn't change it for the world, despite all he’d had to go through. 

Selfishly, Bard couldn't help but be happy. They wouldn't have had this second chance otherwise. Their present happiness was worth the pain past and the pain to come. What was the point of living, if it wasn't?

There was more silence filled with songs humming and sighs of contentment as they gazed at their stars.

“Why did you cut your hair?” was Bard's next question, genuinely curious.

Thranduil didn't reply straight away. He seemed to be thinking hard before he spoke. 

“I'll let it grow again, now.” 

His simple, short answer told Bard everything he needed to know. Despite his current sense of peacefulness it still hurt to be reminded of the grief his death had caused Thranduil.

His hold on his husband grew tighter for a moment, and before Thranduil could do anything he was rolled on his back and drowned under a hundred gentle kisses all over his face and neck. Their laughs were more genuine than they had ever been for the past years of their lives, Thranduil's sounding like crystal.

“You named your cat Bard,” Bard suddenly stated, a laugh still in his voice.

Thranduil chuckled, staring into Bard's eyes. “You named _your_ cat Thranduil.”

Before Bard could protest by saying he had an excuse because he hadn't realized at the time, Thranduil stopped him by bringing their lips together in one long, deep and tender kiss. They smiled through it and forgot the mysteries that still weighed on their minds. The night grew on like this: caresses across skin and scars, kisses and words of love. There was no more questions, no more sorrow, no more useless talking.

The last thing Thranduil thought before sleep took him that night, was a silent wish to the Valar, should they still be there. 

It was a wish Bard shared with him. 

A wish about sharing love beyond the years they had, a wish that they would not be separated again. 

It was a hopeless wish, but strong nonetheless.

  


* * *

When Thranduil woke the next morning in Bard’s warm embrace, a few of the elf’s hairs had turned grey; and the earth smelt moist, the cloths on which they lay were damp. Thranduil inhaled deeply; moss and fertile earth igniting his soul. 

Just like the new hairs on his head, a new day had dawned; fresh and ready after a midnight shower.

There was a word for that. 

Petrichor.

**Author's Note:**

> My graphics can be found [here](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/119195150904/petrichor-reincarnationau-now-on-a03-thranduil) & [here](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/136263615704/petrichor-reincarnationau-read-on-a03-thranduil)  
> Another one by [northerntrash](http://archiveofourown.org/users/northerntrash) [here](http://northerntrash.tumblr.com/post/123891558032/nts-fic-recs-38-petrichor-by-breathingbarduil)  
> And another by [sailingonstardust](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sailingonstardust) [here](http://acebarduil.tumblr.com/post/122027988174/thorinbaqqins-for-thranduil-had-seen-and-felt)  
> Fan art by [Piyo13](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) [here](http://piyo13sdoodles.tumblr.com/post/124212743926/id-give-anything-to-hear-you-say-it-one-more)  
> Edit/gifset by [nafanya-a-a](http://nafanya-a-a.tumblr.com/) [here!](http://nafanya-a-a.tumblr.com/post/143322288247/for-acebarduil-with-many-thanks-for-such-a)  
> Feel free to share the story over Tumblr through those posts!
> 
> I'll leave the end to your imagination, you can understand whatever you want and decide of their fate once they have lived a long life of happiness. Just know this was not written as a sad ending! 
> 
> About the young man, well. I'm not fond of OCs in my stories, and I didn't want to include another reincarnated character, it didn't feel right. What did however, was a kind of little friend cameo. I hope it's okay, plant boy!
> 
> I'd like to say a thousand thanks to Khalie (Kalkiel) for editing this thing with such professionalism and everything because damn, it was one hell of a ride! But also for bearing with me. And supporting me during the whole writing process. And her amazing help with the ending. Love you, friend!
> 
> Thanks to Emily and Andy too for reading the first part and giving such enthusiast feedback!  
> Thank you to Miryokae for reading the whole thing, supporting me too, crying over this story and making me laugh so much every day. 
> 
> Your comments always mean the world to me (it's never too late to leave one!!), and your feedback is much appreciated. I've put my soul in this story, so don't be shy and let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!


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